There was a neatness to everything, an order, and a chivalry to the way Beau dusted off her seat, placed the towel, then handed her coffee. He poured milk and sugar into small paper cups so that she could fix the brew the way she liked. With Tanzanian, she opted for black so as not to dilute the flavor.
Beau hoisted himself up on the tool bench opposite. “I don’t think you’re here for my charming company. So let’s talk turkey.”
She pursed her lips. How to be subtle? “Well...”
“You’re trying to get your husband out of jail, and you want to know if I’ve got any idea who killed Jimbo.”
Subtlety wasn’t necessary. “Yes.” Then she went for broke. “What about his wife?”
Beau laughed, phlegm rattling through the sound. “Jimbo was Cookie’s cash cow. Why do you think she got rid of me? She wanted it all. She’d never kill him.”
“But that’s exactly why she would kill him, isn’t it, to have it all?”
“She wouldn’t know what the hell to do with it minus him. She hasn’t got a worthwhile brain between her ears. Jimbo managed everything. The only way she’d get rid of him is if there was someone who could manage it better.”
Bobbie sipped the delicious drink, considering. The problem was that Warren was darn good at managing money. Another nail in his coffin if anyone found out about the affair.
“I could manage it better,” Beau ventured.
She looked around at the austere surroundings.
“I know what you’re thinking. I live in a goddamn garage, and my wife comes over a couple of times a week for sex. What do I know about managing?” He wagged a finger. “A helluva lot. If Jimbo hadn’t undercut me at every turn and used dirty tactics, I’d be up in that big house instead of him.” Beau glared at her from beneath craggy, bushy brows, and took another sip.
“So, you’re telling me you’re a suspect, too.”
He laughed, phlegm starting a truly horrible cough that had her searching for the phone in case she needed 911. “You really should have that checked, you know,” she said when he recovered.
He waved the comment aside. “If I was going to kill the bastard, I’d have done it ten years ago.”
“And the sheriff buys that?”
“Don’t know what the hell that damn sheriff thinks. He’s cagey, never letting on what’s perking behind those sneaky eyes.”
Sneaky eyes, she wasn’t sure, but she agreed one could never really tell what was going on in Brax’s head. Did he or did he not believe Warren had done it? That was the question.
Beau continued on without her one-hundred-percent attention. “I was really pissed then, when he ripped the business right out from under me, stole my livelihood, all on that bitch of a wife’s word. Now I’m just bitter.”
Well, that caught her ears. Bitterness sometimes translated to action. “Maybe it was some sort of festering thing.”
“That would require my investing emotion in the whole thing. I don’t give a flying fu—excuse me, flying elephant’s behind what Jimbo does anymore.”
“Right, it’s Mavis who really pissed you off.” Bobbie remembered that from their first conversation.
He harrumphed. “She should have stuck by me, believed in me.”
“Hmm, somehow I think she did. She pays for your teeth, doesn’t she?”
“Screw my teeth, screw Jimbo, and screw Mavis. Maybe you should be looking at that damn minimall as motive.”
“The minimall?”
“Yeah. It’s killing this whole damn town. Squeezing the life from it. And you know who owns all these buildings, who everybody but me and Mavis pays their goddamn rent to?”
“Jimbo.” Warren had imparted that information days ago.
“Right.” He graced her with a satisfied smile.
Bobbie didn’t get it. “Well, he certainly didn’t bash in his own head.”
Beau snorted. “He wanted to tear down all these old stores and build cutesy boutiques. Turn it into a goddamn Mendicino or something. Tourist town.”
Sacrilege, even Bobbie knew that. Then she focused on something he’d just revealed. “Why don’t you and Mavis pay?”
“I got the garage and The Cooked Goose for Mavis”—he bared his perfect, white, dentalized teeth—“when Jimbo cut me out of the partnership.”
“You own The Cooked Goose?”
He smiled. “Yup.”
Ooh, Mavis must hate that.
Beau went on with his musings. “So, James Beaumont, dignitary and dickhead of the Cottonmouth, could have thrown anyone out on their ear at any moment.”
“Ahh. Yes?” Sort of a statement, sort of a question, another way of egging him on, because she still didn’t really get his point.
“Which gives them all a motive for murder.” The eye roll added, you idiot.
She thought about how it must be to run a business that had been in your family for years, like Bushman’s or Dillings’ or Johnson’s, any of them up and down Main Street, only to see it all slipping away. To know one man was responsible.
Beau stared at her, an avid spark in his eye. “You like that one, don’t ya?”
That the list of suspects included just about the whole town of Cottonmouth? Her newly adopted town? “No. I don’t. And I bet the sheriff doesn’t either.”
Beau picked his teeth with his tongue. Could Mavis really have sex with this man? Bobbie shuddered.
“The sheriff’s already got his confession,” Beau went on after a moment’s thoughtfulness. “He doesn’t give a rat’s behind about what I say.” He stroked his grizzled beard, shooting her with that penetrating gaze he’d used when he’d first answered the door. “Think about it a minute. Everybody had something to lose.”
Bobbie felt like she was being mesmerized by a wizard.
He dropped his voice a note. “Maybe they all got together and did it.”
“Now I know you’re crazy.”
A laugh wheezed out. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But someone did it.”
Yes, someone had killed Jimbo. Did she really know these people well enough to say that one of them hadn’t done it?
Out in the bright morning sunlight again after leaving Beau, Main Street suddenly seemed filled with shadows she’d never noticed before.
* * * * *
Lunchtime in downtown Cottonmouth. Nick was doing exactly what Bobbie had wanted, scouting the town for gossip. It was the middle of June, it was noon, it was hot, that was all to be expected. What wasn’t ordinary, at least since the advent of Jimbo’s minimall, was the number of cars lining the road and the crowded nature of the sidewalks themselves. Women with strollers, grannies with walkers, old men with hats who usually stayed out of the sun, preferably on their own front porches. Little kids and dogs and Patsy and Eugenia, and every blinking store owner out there sweeping down his or her front walk. All of them gathering or contributing to the latest scandal.
Murder in a small town brought every rat out of its hole.
Bertha Swurtz laid on her horn, though how the hell she could tell anyone was in her way, he didn’t know. Politely put, Bertha couldn’t see very well. A screech of tires ripped through the air as she fumbled over the yellow line, then back again. Down the street, lights flashed and a siren blared. Bertha didn’t actually make it to the side of the road, but, thanks to the grace of God, she did miss the mayor’s parked car. The old lady hadn’t hit a single man, woman, child, or object, stationary or otherwise, in the five years since the DMV yanked her license, but Brax usually hauled her in for a few hours when he caught her, just to make the point.
The deputy climbing from the patrol car, however, wasn’t Brax.
Nick made an about-face, almost sideswiping Mrs. Burtleson’s wheelie cart. He righted her, she grumbled, and backed up into one of the mayor’s newly refurbished light poles bearing an advertisement for the upcoming Accordion Festival. Nick almost made a face like a gargoyle, but that was going too far. He didn’t want to give the poor old woman a heart attack.
He’d heard quite enough gossip about himself this morning. In five different conversations, he’d learned that if Warren Spivey hadn’t killed Jimbo, Nick Angel certainly had. Nothing new there, he already knew that, right from the horse’s mouth, Sheriff Tyler Braxton.
But what other juicy stuff would Bobbie want to hear? He almost rubbed his hands in anticipation. He couldn’t drop by The Cooked Goose to see her later without something to report. Christ, he actually felt jaunty.
As he headed back to Harry’s place, a hand anchored his shoulder. Shit. The sheriff. But when he turned, it was Kent.
“Just the person I wanted to see.” Now why hadn’t he thought of Kent first? Working for Jimbo probably gave him all sorts of information access.
Kent cocked a brow. “Why so, buddy?”
“Tell me everything you know about Jimbo’s murder.”
“That’s a tall order. But hell, don’t make me say it twice. Harry’s damn near ready to shit his pants down there.” Then Kent dragged Nick with him. Cocky and sure of himself, he crossed his arms and leaned against the brick wall of Harry’s store.
Harry leaned his broom against the wall of the shop, the scrap of dirt he’d been sweeping back and forth small enough to disappear into a crack. “I can’t believe the old goat’s dead.”
Kent slashed Harry a look. “Christ, don’t let anyone hear you say that. They’ll be looking at you next.”
Harry smoothed his pomaded hair. “It was a term of endearment.”
The hell with all that, Nick wanted some specifics. “So, did the grieving widow show up at Oil Changers asking to see the books so she could check out the full extent of her new holdings?”
“Haven’t seen her.” Kent’s jaw tightened. He’d never liked Cookie. “Yet.”
“I’m amazed.” Nick stroked his chin. “If you kill someone, do you still get to inherit?”
Harry harrumphed. “That law’s only about writing a book or selling your story about the crime.”
“No, I distinctly remember it saying you can’t profit from your crime. That includes inheriting, too.”
“Hey, do you guys want to hear or don’t you?” Kent seemed peeved he’d lost center stage.
“Yeah, tell us.” It didn’t really matter which of them begged.
“Brax was sniffing around.”
Harry grabbed his broom, as if he suddenly needed something to keep his hands busy. “He’s been sniffing all around town.”
Nick snorted. “Like a hounddog.”
“Doesn’t he believe that Spivey guy did it?”
Kent looked down at Harry’s twisting hands, back up, then spoke without speculating on the action. “What choice has he got since the guy confessed? He said they found footprints, fingerprints, and tire tracks down there. The only thing he hasn’t got is the murder weapon.”
Here was something of interest to Nick. “Did he say exactly what the murder weapon was?”
“Yeah. A shovel.”
“What kind of shovel?” he asked, hoping Brax had gotten more specific than he had outside the Home Depot.
“Let’s see, I think he said a spade. A flat edge.”
Shit. Just what was missing out of his shed. So his interest wouldn’t be noticed, he changed the subject. “Did he want to look at the books or anything?”
Kent eyed him. “Yeah. But the lawyers told me not to give him anything unless he came back with a search warrant.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? Why not just cooperate?”
Kent put up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know. I just do what the lawyers tell me.”
“Why’s Brax interested in all of that stuff when he’s got the killer in jail?” Harry shrugged when both Nick and Kent looked at him. “It’s a legitimate question. And it’s what everybody else is asking, too.”
Kent answered that one. “You know how thorough Brax is. No stone unturned, et cetera, et cetera. And this has gotta be a hell of a lot more pressure than usual.”
“Well, people are mighty shook up about the whole thing.” Harry turned to Nick. “And they don’t like the fact that your girlfriend’s been asking questions all over town either.”
Nick put a finger to his chest. “My girlfriend?”
“Bobbie Jones. The accused’s wife.” A trace of something almost bitter crept into Harry’s voice. “Everyone knows it had to be an outsider.”
And no one wanted it to be themselves to whom Brax started looking, that much was clear.
“I think you better get her to shut up.”
Kent nudged him in the ribs. “Yeah, I’m sure you can get her to shut up real quick.”
Well, he did know one or two ways...but nothing was going to shut Bobbie up about Warren’s innocence.
“Since when do I look like a guy who can control women?” Or that he even cared to try? Sometimes they were better just the way they were. Sometimes, in the case of Bobbie. Not, in the case of Cookie.
Still, if folks were starting to feel a little irked with Bobbie, maybe now wasn’t the time to shove their affair under anyone’s nose. Dropping by The Cooked Goose suddenly wasn’t the great idea he’d first thought it to be. Tonight. At home. He’d tell her everything then. Christ, when she was in his arms, he’d tell her anything she wanted to hear.
Kent slapped him on the shoulder. “You know, bud, you got worse problems than your girlfriend’s big mouth”—he smacked the back of his hand against Nick’s chest—“not that big mouths aren’t good for some things, if you catch my drift.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Shut up, Kent.”
“Hit a nerve, huh?” Then he looked down at Nick’s suddenly bunched fists. “Shit, get a life, bud. I’m trying to tell you Brax seems damn interested in you, specifically. Like if I’ve ever seen what kind of shovels you own.”
Kent made a what-the-hell gesture with his hands.
Harry scratched his head.
“What’s the guy got against you these days, Nick?” Kent looked at him. “You didn’t screw his ex-wife or something, did ya?”
He shot Kent a fuck-you look. “He won’t find anything on me.” And it still didn’t make sense why Brax had given him his card.
Kent folded his arms over his chest again. “Right now, I’d say Brax is looking for something to nail you to the wall. Leastwise, if he doesn’t have Warren Spivey to throw the book at.”
Nick snorted and shook his head. “Yeah. And Bobbie’s not going to rest until she proves Warren didn’t do it.”
Both men raised their eyebrows at him. Maybe his mouth was bigger than Bobbie’s.
“The mayor’s given Brax two more days to figure it all out.” Harry jumped in with that juicy tidbit.
They all stood silent a moment. Kent shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, hell, bud, looks like you may be the one who gets screwed then.”
In more ways than one, and not all of them good.
* * * * *
Bobbie had been locked in information-gathering mode all day. Between rounds of heavenly reminiscing about last night’s nine orgasms.
Of course, some people hadn’t liked her questions. Horace Finegold had walked out before he’d finished his eggs. The mayor’s wife arrived just after lunch, glared at Bobbie, whispered in Mavis’s ear, and left. Patsy Sapp called on the phone, her screeching tones enveloping the far ends of the diner.
Mavis motioned Bobbie over, between the toaster and the blender, which hadn’t gotten used since Mavis stopped serving cheap margaritas at happy hour. The sheer volume had threatened to put her under, and she’d given up on happy hour altogether.
“This has got to stop.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
Mavis raised one brow and pouffed at her cock-eyed bouffant. “Is that why you asked Ron Johnson how far behind he was on his rent?”
“I was worried about what might happen to his business before Jimbo’s estate gets resolved.”
“So, you asked Bruce Migglethorpe why he’d upped the
price of a haircut in April and how he felt about having to do that.”
“I wanted to make sure he hadn’t lost any customers.”
“Well, I’m losing customers, Bobbie.” She stabbed her finger at the front door as it whooshed shut. “See that, Arnold just left without even ordering. What did you say to him?”
Bobbie scrubbed the toe of her shoe across the floor.
“You have to stop, Bobbie. People are getting upset.”
“I’m sorry about that, honestly.” Especially since she hadn’t heard one negative thing about Cookie all day. She’d tried, really she had, but she’d been met with a sea of blank stares. So she’d turned her attention to what Beau had said. After all, his accusations required due diligence in her questioning.
She’d learned only one useful, but alarming, thing. “They all believe Warren did it. But I know better.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe they were all afraid Jimbo was going to throw them out of their stores because he wanted to turn Main Street into Boutique Row.”
Mavis snorted. “You mean Boutique Hell.”
Bobbie took a step back. Bitterness had crept into Mavis’s voice.
Mavis stared her down. “I’m not saying we liked the ideal, but I am saying the people of this town wouldn’t kill to keep things the way they were. So get that idea out of your head.”
Beau had been the one to put it there. Maybe for a reason, perhaps as a smokescreen. “Is Beau capable of murder?”
Mavis threw her hands in the air. “Girl, you’re going to be the death of me.”
Bobbie tapped her foot. “Well. Is he?”
Mavis tipped her head in the direction opposite the fall of her hair. “Sure he is.” She eyed Bobbie. “So am I. I was pissed as hell at Jimbo for believing that little witch he married and screwing Beau out of everything he’d worked so hard for. Remember how I told you I wasn’t done with that woman yet?” She narrowed her eyes. “If it was her that was dead, you can bet your bottom dollar Brax better come looking for me.”
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 22